I enjoyed every moment of time alone with my children, but the idyll couldn’t last. When the Guises sent word that the court was in Orléans preparing for Christmas, we packed up and left, the children chattering with excitement as I braced for another battle with the Guises.
Instead, we arrived to tragedy.
Marie de Guise, regent of Scotland on her daughter’s behalf, had died after years of struggle against the Protestant lords, who now ruled the kingdom until Mary came home or named another regent. Mary was oblivious to the political discord plaguing her land, disconsolate over the mother she did not recall, and though the Guises declared us in mourning, they understood that with no means to keep Scotland safe, our alliance was now on paper alone. The Guise prestige had plummeted; few of the nobles invited to court that holiday season deigned to appear and tumult plagued the streets, with placards denouncing the Guises as bloodthirsty tyrants plastered on every corner. Their stranglehold on France was weakening.
I was left to care for the children and Mary. Her sorrow roused frenetic concern in François, who couldn’t stand to see her distressed. The combination of her grief, undercurrents of intrigue at court, and daily visits from Monsignor proved too much and François fell ill again.
This time, the onslaught was merciless. Within days a monstrous fistula had formed inside his left ear and he writhed in agony, suppurating pus and soaked with fever. I ensconced myself in his chamber and held him while he shrieked and his physicians debated the feasibility of using a stronger dose of opiate.
“Fools!” I yelled. “Look at him! Dose him now or by God I’ll have your heads!”
Mary hovered nearby. I almost waved her out, thinking the sight of her would make François even more anxious, but she crept to his side and took his hand. I watched in awe as he went quiet, like a sick animal soothed by its master’s touch. She had a more calming effect than any opiate, and so I left her in charge of his care so I could contend with the growing anxiety at court.
Every time I emerged from his rooms to change my clothing or take nourishment, I found a host of whispering courtiers and dagger-eyed ambassadors waiting in the galleries, searching my face for any sign that death was about to claim my son. François was childless; his heir was my third son, ten-year-old Charles. I could almost hear the court’s avid speculation as they sensed the balance of power begin to tilt; and I took to creeping down hidden back passageways to my rooms, where I stayed only long enough to recover my strength.
One night, bone-weary from my vigil, I entered my apartments in a haze. As I passed the alcove, I sensed a presence. I whirled about. I couldn’t contain my gasp when I saw Nostradamus materialize as if from nowhere. “You scared me to death! How did you get in here?”
“Through the door,” he said. “No one noticed.” He wore unadorned black, his collar high about his throat. He clutched a staff and held himself with an aged person’s focused poise, yet I heard wry humor in his tone. “You’d be surprised at how little attention old men get.” His voice softened. “I am sorry for your trials, my lady. I would not have come this far to trouble you had I not felt the need.”
I took a step back. “No. You must not say it.”
He tilted his head. “If I do not say it, how will you know?”
“I don’t want to know!” My voice cracked. “My son is dying! If you have any care for me, you’ll not speak of further suffering. I’m not you. I can’t bear to know the future.”
“And yet you must, for I have seen you in the water.” His voice turned dark. “‘The eldest branch dies before eighteen, without leaves and two islands in discord. The younger tree will rule longer, against those who would fill the realm with blood and strife.’”
A black wave crashed over me. “What … what does it mean?”
He shook his head. “You ask and yet you know.” He held up his hand. “I cannot give you something I do not possess. I do not hold the key. Only you do, for it is your path.”
He turned and walked out, leaving emptiness in his wake. I wanted to yell at him to come back. What good was a seer who spoke in riddles and disappeared like mist? How could his convoluted prophecies serve me now?
Then, without warning, I understood.
François was my eldest; he had no child. The islands in discord were the religions. And my next son, Charles—he would inherit. He would rule, much longer, against those who wished us harm. I knew who they were: the Guises, my mortal enemies. I had to fight. Charles would need me more than François ever had; he would need me to champion his rights, to thwart those who sought to rule through him and bring more havoc upon France.
Never forget that God has a plan for you. Without you, this realm will fall apart.
I was about to lose a son. But in return, I now had the chance to save his kingdom.
I called for Birago. “Send out letters with my private seal,” I said in a muted voice. “Write to the constable, to all the nobles who would see the Guises fall. Tell them the Queen Mother urgently requests their presence at court. Tell them it is a matter of life and death.”
He nodded. “Is His Majesty …?”
“Soon,” I whispered. “We must be ready.”
Five days later, as I held his wasted hand, flanked by sobbing Mary and the grim-faced Guises, my son François II breathed his last.
He had not yet celebrated his seventeenth birthday.
TWENTY-TWO
I DID NOT HAVE TIME TO MOURN.
We returned to Paris with my son’s corpse, where he was handed over to the embalmers and Mary, our widow queen, was escorted by her Guise relatives to her cloister in the Hôtel de Cluny. Overnight, a frozen hush descended, mirroring the December snows blanketing Paris.
I moved at once to protect Charles and my other children. No one was allowed to see them without my permission, especially the Guises, and once I proclaimed our official mourning I embarked on my second order of business.
“The lords will be here by tomorrow,” Birago informed me as we sat in my apartments at night, haggard from our labor. “Letters have also been sent to Philip of Spain and Elizabeth of England, as well as the princes in Germany and the Low Countries, stating your case.”
“Good.” I undid my ruff, set it aside. “Is there any word from Queen Jeanne of Navarre?”
He sighed. “Yes. She wrote back to say she’ll consider your offer to receive her, but she does not think she can bear weeks of difficult travel across France in the dead of winter.”
“Is that so?” I snorted. “Well, that suits me fine. I’ve no desire to contend with her or that Bourbon husband of hers. I offered as a courtesy, nothing more.”
Birago ran a hand over his balding pate. Now in his late forties, he’d lost most of his hair and his bare brow emphasized his sharp features and deep-set eyes, which were always alert, watchful, like a bird of prey’s. “Madama, much as I hate to say this I believe we should not dismiss Antoine of Bourbon so quickly. By law, Charles must have a regent until he comes of age. Antoine is of royal blood; he stands in the line of succession after your sons. He is also of the Catholic faith and therefore could stake a claim to the regency against you.”
I forced out a curt laugh as I trudged to my chair. My legs ached from the icy chill permeating the old Louvre, which no amount of fires in our hearths could mitigate. “Last I’d heard, Antoine’s sole faith was wine and vice. I hardly think such a louse poses a threat.”
“When it comes to power, even the worst sinner can repent.”
“In other words, he could become a Guise weapon.” I sat, considering. “Well, for now we can assume Jeanne has no intention of letting Antoine come to court. Like us, she must be aware that he has a right to the regency, and the last thing she’ll want is her husband, the father of her son, making an alliance with the Guises, whom she detests as only a Huguenot queen can. I don’t think we need worry on his account.” I paused. “Any news of Coligny?”
As I spoke, I kept my tone neutral, not showing the su
rge of anticipation I felt when Birago replied, “He wrote to say that the Huguenot leaders agree to refrain from further action until they hear the outcome of Your Grace’s edict.”
“And of our request to attend us at court …?”
“He cannot, for the moment. His wife is still quite ill, and he says he must be with her.”
I bit my lip, my enthusiasm fading into disappointment. Much as I yearned for him, I couldn’t expect otherwise. “So be it,” I said. “We’ll proceed without him. As soon as the lords arrive, call the Council to session. It is time I gave these Guises a well-deserved lesson.”
I sat at the head of the wide oak table as the lords filed in. I smiled at each in turn, noting the constable’s vigorous nod and Monsignor’s silken smile. Though not pleased to find himself surrounded by old foes at court, he didn’t look like a man who was about to concede defeat.
“Where is your brother le Balafré, Monsignor?” I asked, and he replied: “He sends his regrets but felt he should inform our parlement of our late king’s funeral arrangements.”
“Oh?” I returned his smile. “He should have asked first. I sent word myself, days ago.”
The cardinal’s fine features tightened, his conciliatory mask slipping to reveal the despot underneath. A courtier first, his instincts honed for survival, he knew what was coming.
The others waited. With Birago seated beside me, holding his leather portfolio, I said, “I grieve for my son François. God has seen fit to take him from us and leave this realm to an underage monarch, our new king, Charles IX.” I paused. My mouth was dry. I took a sip of watered wine from my goblet. “To learn to rule requires time and France, as my lords know, is in dire need of a steady hand. I therefore propose to declare myself regent until Charles is of age.”
I saw gloating consent on the constable’s weathered face; he was now avenged for his exile by the Guises after my husband’s death. The others sat silent, almost quiescent; they did not worry me. I was concerned only with Monsignor. Though I had him cornered, he still had fangs.
His lips curled. “I assume Her Grace will retain this Council?”
“Yes, with one addition. At the appropriate time, Admiral de Coligny will join us.”
“Begging your leave,” Monsignor purred, “but isn’t he a heretic?”
“My nephew is as qualified as any lord present,” growled Montmorency.
“I don’t question his qualifications,” replied Monsignor, “but rather his role against us.”
“I make the decisions now,” I interrupted. “Coligny will serve, pending the king’s approval.” I looked at the others, found no visible resistance. Rumors of Coligny’s heresy might abound, but it seemed he had not openly declared his new faith.
Monsignor steepled his long fingers before his face. As silence fell, Birago took out the papers from his portfolio. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I have here the official proclamation of Her Grace’s regency, for your signatures.”
• • •
Hours later, I emerged to a cold supper. I devoured every morsel moments before Birago entered my room. Lucrezia cleared the plates as we sat by my fireplace.
“Madama, while we’ve won this day we are far from safe.” He stretched his feet before the fire. “My spies tell me le Balafré never presented himself in parlement. He went to Champagne, to the Guise seat of Joinville, where he has many retainers. I fear he plots against you.”
“I expect nothing less. But at best Joinville is a week’s ride from Paris. Whatever they plot, they cannot rouse an army without us learning of it first, yes?”
Birago nodded. “Indeed. I’ve almost as many spies as Guise has retainers.” Then he paused. “I know you hold Coligny in high esteem, madama, but seating him in Council might not be a wise decision. For now the Catholic lords accept your regency because they no longer trust the Guises, but they’ll not be so amenable should Coligny’s faith become common knowledge.”
In the quiet that followed his words, I heard the wind moan against the palace walls. Birago knew. My rooms were Lucrezia’s domain: she’d seen Coligny enter with me. I didn’t fault her. She must be worried; she wanted to protect me and confided in Birago, who was my adviser.
“Coligny holds significant influence with the Huguenot leaders,” I managed to say at length. “We need their cooperation to implement my edict.”
Birago looked directly at me. “I understand. However, I must ask that you not place your trust in him until he proves worthy of it.”
“Yes,” I murmured, “of course. I am grateful for your candor.”
Birago left me. Scooping up Muet, I went into my bedchamber. As I prepared for bed, in my mind I traced his taut body, felt his hands buried in my hair, his mouth on my breasts …
That night, I did not sleep.
Christmas was a gloomy affair; Mary remained in her cloister and a subdued funeral cortege accompanied us to my son’s entombment in St. Denis, after which I returned to the Louvre to assume charge of Charles.
I was gratified after the New Year when Monsignor, deprived of all power save his seat in Council, accepted an invitation to attend the Holy Council in Rome, which would assemble to discuss the spread of heresy in Europe. With the cardinal gone for what I hoped was months of theological debate and le Balafré kicking up dust in Joinville, I was at liberty to rearrange the court to my liking and institute a new regimen for Charles.
Like François before him, my ten-year-old son was overwhelmed by his kingship. He had a thousand questions, mostly about how much his life would change. “Can I still hawk and hunt whenever I like?” he asked me as we stood in his scarlet-and-gold-hung rooms.
“Of course,” I said. “Watch your fingers.” He fed tidbits of meat to a new peregrine falcon perched on a pole by his bed, a recent gift sent to him from Spain by his sister Elisabeth.
I smoothed the locks of tangled dark hair from his brow. “Hunting and hawking are fine, my child, but you’re king now. You must learn to rule. Birago will instruct you; he studied law in Florence and can teach you the proper ways of governance.”
Charles frowned. “François said he hated being king. He told me the Guises were at him day and night and he never had a moment to himself. They even questioned him about how often he slept with Mary and got mad when he told them she was like a sister to him. Birago won’t do that to me, will he?”
Guilt stabbed through me as I thought of how little I’d been able to protect my late son. François had been my firstborn, my triumph after years of barrenness; I could still recall how beautiful he’d been, a child delicate as a faun, and how he’d wailed for Diane whenever I assumed charge of him. Of everything she’d done, taking him from me was her cruelest act. In doing so she had deprived me of the chance to show François how much I loved him.
I forced out a smile, focusing on Charles. His infancy had likewise been overshadowed by Diane, but he was mine now. I would make him strong, healthy, everything a king should be.
“The Guises no longer have any power here,” I said to him. “You needn’t worry.”
He shrugged, seemingly absorbed in his falcon. Then he said with that uncanny insight that children sometimes display, “If you’re to be my regent, why can’t you instruct me?”
I chuckled. “Because I too have much to learn. Now, finish with that bird; Birago expects you in the classroom.” As I leaned down to kiss his cheek, he wrapped his arms around me. “I love you, Maman,” I heard him murmur. “Promise me, you’ll never let the Guises hurt us again.”
Of all my children, he’d always been the least demonstrative, but I’d seen his desperate grief when his father died and knew he had a deep sensitivity. I held him close. “I promise,” I whispered. “They’ll never hurt us. Never. I’d die first.”
I left him to check on Hercule, who had a mild colic, and then, after seeing to Margot and Henri—whom I’d set to a rigid schedule of studies—I returned to the task of ruling the kingdom.
I hadn’t lied when
I said I had much to learn. I’d never held power as queen consort in Henri’s reign, save for my brief regency during the Milanese war, and I was faced with a near-destitute treasury, a troubled populace, and fractious government. Widespread starvation haunted France, the legacy of years of harsh winters and humid summers, so I had our royal storehouses opened and grain distributed. Birago suggested we reinvigorate taxation by putting the burden on our nobility rather than the mercantile class, but we were immersed in presenting my edict of toleration to the parlement, where it was hotly contested. It passed by a narrow margin; the Huguenots were now free to resume their businesses and worship in peace.
It was my first triumph as regent, and to celebrate our success I presented Charles at court.
Without extra money, we made do with what we had. Lucrezia, Anna-Maria, and I almost ruined our eyes and fingers altering the royal robes to fit Charles’s spare frame. I dressed my other children with equal care; as our new heir, Henri sported a silver tissue doublet, which he accessorized in his inimitable style with pearl-drop earrings. Margot wore red satin and we squeezed Hercule into azure velvet and a jaunty cap.
Mary Stuart appeared clad in the white veil and gown of mourning. Though her cloister was at an end and the children clamored about her, to me she resembled a lost soul, shrouded in uncertainty. I dreaded the thought of contending with the thorny issue of her future, but I knew I must before the Guises did it for me, and so I wrote to Cosimo Ruggieri the next day to request an astrological chart, hoping to find clues to my immediate problems in the stars.
I had neglected Cosimo, leaving him to his business in his château at Chaumont, and I was shocked when he arrived by how thin he was. He looked as though he hadn’t eaten a full meal in weeks, his face pared to bone and skin, his black eyes huge and gleaming with intensity.
As soon as he saw me, he released a dramatic sigh. “I’ve done my utmost, but I’m afraid I’m not the great Nostradamus. I can’t divine the future in a basin of water.”
The Confessions of Catherine de Medici Page 19
